


The Young Falcon

by LucyLovecraft



Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: Bohun knows all the angsty love songs, Canon Related, Father Figures, Gen, Happy Murder Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Teen Years, my murderous emo child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 00:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14863523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyLovecraft/pseuds/LucyLovecraft
Summary: Bohun never had a family. He did not know who he was or where he had come from. In all his life, only one man had ever been a father to him.Child abuse warning for Burłaj having a vague hunch that Bohun's past was not happy.





	The Young Falcon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [am_fae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/gifts).



> The canon briefly mentions how Burłaj was a father figure to young Bohun and taught him everything he knew about making war, as well as having given Bohun a warning that women will be the death of him. This briefly explores what that relationship might have been like. 
> 
> Apparently _chaikas_ are rigged rather like Viking ships, so I didn't even have to look up details of rigging. Enjoy your fussily accurate nautical terminology.

The southerly wind whipped at their clothes, blowing hot and strong as though straight from the mouth of Hell. Sparks from the burning city pursued the Cossack _chaikas_ through the night, lighting on silken booty and on cordage so they dared not set their sails. But only those tasked with splashing water on the rigging showed any sign of urgency. There was no pursuit from Sinope: only sparks and smoke followed them.  
  
Some ironic soul began to sing a slow, mournful song, setting the pace for the rowers’ unhurried strokes:  
  
_“Oh, my loving,_  
_Oh, how it burns!_  
_As a living flame,_  
_My heart, it yearns.”_  
  
“Strong lungs, that one,” Burłaj said, looking towards the singer’s ship. “I’m hoarse as a crow from all that smoke, and so singed that I damn well look like one.”  
  
Jurko did not respond. Instead the young man sprang forward, leaning out over the ship’s bow with his arm around the stem. His face shone in the light of the burning city as he continued the song:  
  
_“Consume me, love,_  
_With a kiss of fire,_  
_Or let your white hand_  
_Set light to my pyre.”_  
  
His voice rang out sweet and true, carrying easily over the sounds of wind, waves, and the screaming of gulls and humans. The following verse was taken up by the next ship, and then on again by the next, the song passed back and forth among the Cossack craft as they rowed out into the offing.  
  
“You’ve a fine voice, lad,” Burłaj said. “If I could sing like that, the girls would chase me, not the other way around!”  
  
“What would I want with girls?” Jurko said, smile flashing white in his soot-blackened face.  
  
“Ha! If you try to tell me that you don’t know what to do with girls, then you’re no Cossack!”  
  
“Who needs girls, when you have your Cossack glory!” the young man cried. In the gaiety of his heart he leapt even higher, perching one-legged atop the ship’s stem with a hand braced on the forestay. He faced back towards the burning city, flinging out an arm to a horizon stained red. “Who needs a girl in your bed, when you can burn a whole city to keep you warm!”  
  
His shipmates met this pronouncement with cheers and derisive hoots.  
  
“Pass your girls on to me then! I’ll keep ‘em warm!”  
  
“Looks like he’s about to take wing!”  
  
“Get down from there, unless you’re a gull!”  
  
Still grinning, Jurko turned northwards where the ship’s shadow raced out before them over the flame-tipped waves. The wind caught at his scalplock, and he knew he would never grow his hair out—not ever! A shaven scalp was just the thing for burning pagan cities.  
  
Burłaj watched him, a fond smile on his weatherbeaten face.  
  
“Come down, falcon. You’ll put us by the head with your weight up there.”  
  
Jurko leapt down. Burłaj caught glimpse of his delighted eyes, bright in the firelight before darkness veiled them again.  
  
_Beautiful eyes,_ Burłaj thought, shaking his head. _Jesu Maria, I’m glad the boy’s so deadly, or the Tartars would’ve mistaken him for a girl long ago._

Yet that reflection could lead down paths that made even his hardened heart ache with pity. He diverted his thoughts:  
  
“You’ve never been in love, have you Jurko?”  
  
“Me?” he scoffed. That easy scorn gave Burłaj his answer before Jurko even continued: “Never!”  
  
“Well,” he said, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulder. “Well, that’s for the best, isn’t it?”  
  
“Why’s that, father?”  
  
“Because you don’t do anything by half measures, that’s why!”  
  
Burłaj saw him grinning, and he gave him a little shake.  
  
“Hey, now! Don’t you smirk like that when I’m trying to give you sage advice. Listen to me, son: you put love right out of your head or when you fall, you’ll fall hard and feel it, too. You stay away from women, hear? They’ll be the death of you! Love war—she’s a better mother and mistress for men like you and me, and that’s certain.”  
  
He’d expected another laugh. Instead there was only silence. Burłaj cast a quick glance at Jurko’s face but, with their backs to the flames, he could see nothing.  
  
“You’ll heed me, then? You won’t risk your neck in foolishness, trying to get a tumble?”  
  
“It’ll never happen.”

 _No,_ Burłaj thought, feeling sick. _No, perhaps not. Merciful Christ, most likely it’ll be long years still before you want anything like that. But God grant he remembers what I’ve told him when that day arrives._  
  
“Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” he said, affecting an easy bluster. “You stick with me, lad, and you can be sure no harm will come to you. You just pay attention to all I teach you and you’ll be the best fighter on the Steppe.” He gave Jurko a quick pat on the shoulder, then stepped away. Burłaj did not think himself much cleverer than the next man, but he had been a leader long enough to know when to offer a soldier the excuse he needed. The least gift he could give was to let the boy keep his pride. “You plan on keeping the first watch?”

“Yes. I’m not tired.”  
  
“See you in the morning, then.”  
  
“Good night, father. Sleep well.”  
  
“Good night, lad.” And then, with all his heart, he added: “God keep you.”


End file.
